


0, 1

by kwunkwun



Category: EXILE (JPOP), Sandaime J Soul Brothers
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 23:09:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10202924
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kwunkwun/pseuds/kwunkwun
Summary: There is always a little emptiness you feel at the end of every concert.





	

**Author's Note:**

> After watching 'Born in the Exile' and seeing sad little Ryuji at the end of the BP tour, I just got plot bunnies running everywhere.

The crowd was gone. So were the stage lights, the music that simultaneously came through his earpiece and the speakers. Ryuji’s head rung a little; it felt like someone had let loose a bumblebee in there, and all he could do was wait it out.

They all stood in the corridor, backs to a cream wall, because a camera was still recording. There was enough fatigue between the seven of them to fell a rhino, probably. He was honestly tired of all the filming. He wanted to drop to the floor, sleep for a whole day, eat some incongruous lump of food choked with MSG, and then sleep some more.

But he was sad the concert was over. That was true. His melancholy seemed to infect everyone –even Elly and Ken were oddly quiet. Ryuji trotted forwards and turned around at that point, saying, sorry guys, hey. I take it back. Come on _._

They came up one by one to touch him on the back or shoulder or ruffle his hair, until he felt like one of those shisa statuettes at Okinawan shrines being petted by tourists.

“Ahhhh. Shit. I’m beat. Let’s get our stuff and fuck off from here,” Naoto moaned, once the camera was gone.

“Amen to that. Don’t forget about the afterparty tomorrow, dudes,” Ken added, rolling his shoulders with a grunt.

The team filtered off in twos and threes until only himself and Omi were left behind. Ryuji didn’t bother to check whether the coast was clear; he walked straight into Omi’s chest, squashing his face into the crook of his vocal partner’s shoulder. He smelled like hairspray and sweat but he didn’t really mind (he probably smelled the same).

“Really, you’re just like a kid,” Omi said gently, patting his back a few times. His hand stayed there, against his shoulderblade. He impetulantly nuzzled against Omi’s neck.

“I’m sad it’s over.”

“Me too… hey. Don’t cry.”

“I held it back on stage. Leave me alone.”

He turned his head the other way to rub his wet eyes into Omi’s t-shirt.

“The end is just the beginning of something else, Naoki-san said.”

“It sounds lame when you say it, Omi.”

“Oi…”

They both laughed quietly. He felt Omi tighten an arm around his waist, and expected that he was about to be manhandled his way back to the greenroom. Unwilling to cooperate, he only grew lax against Omi’s body.

“Such a child. Hey, Ryuji?”

“Mm?”

“Thank you for playing for us.”

“Hm. That’s okay. I’m glad I didn’t mess up the chords.”

“Thank you for singing with me.”

Ryuji pulled back to beam at him, through the blushing and all.

“I could say the same. Thanks, Omi.”

After this he went straight back to leaning on him like a rag doll.

“Do I really have to carry you back?”

“I want to sleep together, Omi.”

“Such a child.”

Ryuji blissfully closed his eyes, thought about what Naoki-san said.

Beginnings. Ends. Beginnings.

As long as the seven of them were all there.

As long as Omi was there.


End file.
